


All My Life

by Ladyoftarth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Sword Fighting, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-06 12:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1858548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyoftarth/pseuds/Ladyoftarth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tournament is held in the River Lands to celebrate Jon Arryn's name day.  A mysterious "knight" enters to compete for noble intentions.  Jaime finds it amusing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the "Jaime & Brienne Quote Challenge". My quote for this challenge was "All my life men like you have sneered at me."

“It would be a great service to me my lady. I’ve no doubt of your skill.” The old knight clutched her hand firmly. With a shaky and pleading voice he continued, “I know I ask too much, but I would not do so if I did not think you were capable.”

Brienne hesitated before answering.  Her heart was heavy with having to deny his request.  The old knight had been good and kindly to her, more than most. He respected her, and had even given her his sword. A humble sword that had served him during the wars of his youth, the steel lacked embellishments, but it was a good sturdy weapon.  His gift was an act that had meant more to Brienne than anything she had ever received. She had planned to leave it with him when she left home for Tarth. She sighed sadly knowing the only course of good sense was to deny his request.

“What you are asking is impossible.”  It was ludicrous to think she could enter a tournament secretly, without notice. Winning was another matter entirely.  The idea that the old knight thought she could win was flattering, but she knew she must refuse.

“You have been good to me, Ser, and I thank you for your kindness. I must return home, I’ve worried my father long enough. If there is anything else I can do please ask and I will do it, gladly.”

“This is what I ask of you, Brienne of Tarth.  Your words to me were that you would serve, providing it was honourable service.  What could be more honourable than saving an old man and his family from ruin?”

Brienne looked to the old man's grandson and granddaughter, busy at work digging up potatoes from the earth and throwing them in rough-spun sacks. They were his only family. She knew the old knight worried for the fate of his grandchildren when he was gone. How many times had he said he would not make it to see the next summer?  The winnings from a tournament would give him some peace of mind, it would be more than enough coin to provide for them through the coming winter, everyone predicted it was to be a long one. Their home was meager, and the farm small. The grandson Peter was a simpleton, kind, large and strong, good for helping with the farm work, but he would never be able to manage the affairs of their home. The granddaughter was young and not yet at a marriageable age. She was quiet, and well mannered, with a pox scarred face.  Brienne could sympathize with the young maid’s appearance.  She herself was no great beauty, in truth Brienne of Tarth was freakishly tall, big, and ugly, mocked openly for her broad and freckled features. The girl was of average size, surely suitors would want her and her holdings, small as they may be. She could have a husband to mind them both. If she had gold, she might not even need to marry at all, unless she chose to.  The girl was in a situation similar to her own. Brienne briefly contemplated the old knight's request once more.

“No one will allow me to enter a tournament, Ser.  You may have knighted me…” Brienne shifted uncomfortably at the memory of his act. She had allowed him to say the words, half-heartedly mumbling them back, not wanting to offend the man. "But it does not mean I am one in the eyes of others.  I will be laughed off the field.” Her insides knotted at the thought.

“I have an idea.” A toothless smile emerged through his beard, sprouts of wiry grey and white hair.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The heat was extraordinary, one last kiss of summer.  Winter was coming, and tournaments would become scarcer. Jaime had contemplated entering the events, but he had thus far been unimpressed by the competition.  

As uninterested as he was in fighting this sorry lot, Jaime was forced by his duties as a member of the Kingsguard to the river valleys for the tournament of the Hand.  Hoster Tully was to host; the Starks of Winterfell would be travelling south for the event. Jon Arryn was celebrating his eightieth name-day, and King Robert was insistent on a tournament. A retinue of his guards, servants, squires, and nobles all tramped out to the Riverlands to tend to the needs of his Grace. He had hoped that King Robert would have elected to attend the tournament on his own. He could have stayed in Kings Landing with Cersei, but much to his sister’s displeasure Robert wished they all be present.

Jaime stood guard outside the royal tent, waiting to be relieved from his duties.King Robert emerged suddenly. Ignoring Jaime, he strode over to one of the nearby ale tents, grabbing a plump serving wench, pulling her down into his lap.  Frothy beer spilled over them both.  Robert gave a booming laugh, and slurped the spilt ale from the woman's flesh.  

Jaime snorted with disgust and went inside the tent to see how Cersei was suffering the day.

“You may leave us,” Cersei commanded her servant as he entered.

Jaime smiled.  It boded well that she wanted to be alone with him.

Cersei waved her hands beckoning him in. “Hurry, come to me.”

Jaime bit his lip and unlaced his breeches. He strode over to her, gathered her in his arms and lifted up her skirts. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling herself up.  He lifted her legs and as she straddled him, he fucked her on his feet.  Quick hurried thrusts.  She must have been upset with Robert.  It was so rare she’d be willing to take this degree of risk.

Jaime kissed at her collarbone, sticky with sweat, groaning as he pushed his pulsing cock into her.

Cersei stifled a delicious moan into his neck as his pace quickened.

“Faster,” she commanded, her words coming in breathy gasps. “Finish, Jaime, finish!”

It frustrated him immensely when she demanded he rush.  He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of her. His passion spent, his legs buckled slightly.  Cersei pulled her legs free of him and dropped her skirts back to the floor. She lit a perfumed wick and poured water into a basin.  Cersei pressed the wet cloth to her long neck, her bosom, and then lifted her skirts to clean the mess he had left between her thighs. Jaime admired her beauty--his sister was perfection. He longed to loosen her golden hair, to feel and smell it. He could be ready again; it would not take much; he wanted to tell her so, but knew she would tell him to leave. Jaime retrieved his breeches and as he was pulling them up, they could hear Robert’s voice outside the tent.

Cersei’s eyes narrowed. “Leave. Now!” she hissed.

Jaime reluctantly grabbed his sword and scabbard; he belted it to his waist, giving his sister one last look before leaving the tent.

“Kingslayer!” Robert shouted as he approached.  “You look as though the sun has been at you.  Best take a break.”

“Your Grace,” Jaime replied politely.  Nodding, he left as commanded.

 

 

Jaime walked in the shade of a line of ancient oaks. A sea of tents were set up across the fields, peppered with colourful banners that lay limp like wilted weeds. He stopped briefly at his own tent to remove his armour; hoping it would help to elevate the stifling heat of the day. His mood somewhat improved by his visit with Cersei, he decided to make the way down to the training grounds to see what the competition for tomorrow’s tournament would yield. He hoped to see an improvement of the men he had seen earlier that day.  

Any wise combatant would never display the entirety of their true skill during practice, and there was always fear of injury if one exerted themselves too greatly. Some men delighted in displaying their prowess, a maneuver he favoured, one that weeded out the competition.

Jaime enviously watched the knights sparring.  It was not too late to change his mind; he too could enter the tournament. It lacked the thrill of a true battle, but swinging a blade made him feel almost as alive as when he was inside Cersei.

He soon grew tired of watching their lack-luster performances. The sun had squelched the liveliness of them all.  Some dueled; others took to exercising against straw and wooden dummies.  Away from the groups of men, one tall knight swung his sword at a dummy strung up over a branch under a secluded grove of trees. The man used slow calculated movements, reserving his strength.  He had good form.  No grace, but the man looked strong.

 _Now this could be a competitor… How odd that he wears his helm_ …

Most of the men’s torsos were bare fleshed, yet this knight wore a tunic, and a helm.  His curiosity piqued, Jaime made his way to the shady place where the knight was swinging his sword.

“That is a fine weapon,” Jaime said politely. The sword was plain and not particularly “fine,” but he was hoping to invite conversation.

The knight stopped suddenly and stiffened. No response.

“What events are you entering tomorrow?” Jaime asked. Silence was his only answer. Annoyed his smile left his face. “Are you mute?” He waited again for a reply. Still the man would not speak. The heat was making him irritable and he snapped, “Take off your helm.”

The knight looked down, slightly tilting his head to the side, almost as if he was looking for a means of escape.

Jaime’s eyes narrowed suspiciously “I may not be in my white cloak, but I am Jaime Lannister, member of the Kingsguard, and I command you to remove your helmet.” Jaime reached for the sword at his hip.

The knight grasped at his helm, lifting it up to reveal a sweaty mop of hair the colour of dirty straw.  Beneath an angry furrow of brow were two astonishing blue eyes, gems that seemed cruel to place in such a broad homely face speckled with hundreds of dark freckles. “I know who you are.”

“By the gods, you’re a woman,” Jaime said with a smirk.

Before the wench could respond, a large oaf of a boy came shambling up behind her with a flask of water.

“Do you mean to compete?” Jaime asked with a laugh.  The notion was at least an amusing one.

“Thank you.” The wench took the water from the simpleton, pressing the flask to her thick lips. She was panting like a beast.

“Well?” Jaime asked. “Do you?”

“What does it matter to you?” came her terse reply.

Jaime wrestled with feelings of both indignation and amusement at the wench's response.“It doesn’t.  Get yourself killed.  It is no concern of mine, but  the field is no place for a woman, no matter how large and beastly.”

“Good day.” The wench turned away from him.

Her curt dismissal compounded with the blistering heat further soured his mood.   _She will not brush me away so easily._ “I cannot allow you to enter this tournament.”

The wench turned to face him again, her skin reddened. “I thought you said it was of no concern to you?”

“I may reconsider.  Tell me. Why are you so willing to end your life here on these fields? For the purse?  Hoping to secure a dowry? You would bankrupt the crown for the amount of gold you would need.”

He hoped his insults would break her, but the wench seemed unperturbed.

“They say you are the best swordsman in all of the Seven Kingdoms.” Her words were not exaltations, but instead an insult delivered coldly through fat lips curled into a sneer of disgust.  She looked at him the way others did when they assumed he was not looking.

_Kingslayer._

She hadn’t dared call him that, but he could see the revulsion in those shimmering blue eyes. He knew the look well.

“If I can best you… would you hold your tongue?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support on the first chapter all you lovely people.
> 
> A big thank-you to my TWO lovely beta readers Commasplice and YellowDelaney


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A duel to determine if Jaime will keep Brienne's secret safe.

Jaime scoffed at the absurdity of the idea. There wasn’t a man alive in all of Westeros that could hold his ground against him in swordplay.   _This wench needs to be taught a lesson._ The thought of her dumb ugly face recognizing defeat as his blade was pressed against her thick neck was an appealing one.

She did not wait for his reply, and seemed to realize his acceptance of her challenge. She asked the simpleton to bring her two blunted swords.

Jaime reached for the sword offered to him.  The boy’s smile was a broad friendly one. He was completely unaware of the animosity brewing between himself and this obstinate wench.

“Is this your brother?” Jaime asked as he pointed the dull blade at the boy.

“No.” The wench replied.

Jaime tested the balance of his weapon as he lazily twisted and turned the sword through the air.   _Curious. There is a resemblance. She is as large as the boy, only his disposition is much more pleasant._

“Do put your helm back on.  I would not have anyone see me beating a woman so openly. Although at a distance, I do not see how anyone could tell you lack a cock.”

Again the wench ignored his verbal barbs, she turned her back to him to retrieve her helm from the brittle grass where she had placed it.  Jaime noticed a second helm next to it. She picked it up and tossed that to him as well. Jaime caught the helmet easily enough, it was identical the one she wore.  

“Put it on. Unless you wish any passerby to see the King…” She clipped her words short, realizing her slip.

“Say it, wench. Everyone else does.”

Without hesitation she completed her insult, “The Kingslayer bested by a woman.”

Jaime laughed at the absurdity of the creature before him. “Wench, I will have you flat on your back in three strokes of this blade.”

"All my life men like you have sneered at me. You may find I am no easy foe."

Jaime laughed dismissively, “Well come on, let us get this over with.” He called her on with short and dismissive gestures of his fingertips waving her forward.

The woman did not move.  Her legs were bent defensively, and her sword guarded her torso.  She was waiting for him to strike first.

 

_One._

Jaime flew at her with a mighty overhand swing.  A strike so quick and precise there had been very few in his life who had been able to withstand it.  Incredibly the wench's sword met his own, she barely moved her feet as she blocked the attack. She grunted as she held his attack in place. Jaime pressed down, his blade inching closer and closer to the sliver of her exposed neck between her plate and helm.  Jaime gave a part grin, part snarl as he continued to press the blade closer to her.  His grin quickly dissipated into a frown as his arms grew shaky when the wench pushed back against him.  Soon it was him who was grunting.  She bent her knees and roared like a bear as she pushed him away.  Jaime stumbled back, eyes wide with surprise at her bewildering strength.

Recovering, he went at her again.

_Two._

He ran at her with another high swing; then he twisted and changed the direction of the attack mid-air, aiming for her torso.  He gritted his teeth as the wench easily caught the change of the blade with her own, the metal screeching briefly as she slid his attack away.

The smile vanished from his face, he cleared his throat went at her again.

_Three._

His next attack came in low, an aim for the soft interior of her meaty thigh.  He wished the sword was not so dull.  How he would love to open up her leg, watch it spurt blood, and end this freakish creature. Again the wench deflected his attack, manoeuvring his sword over head, leaving his torso exposed.  The wench swung for him, but he too was quick and managed to block her attack... barely.

_Four, five, six, seven, and eight._

 Soon Jaime lost count and his frustration grew to a tempered pitch with each attack she managed to block. He was panting like a dog, the sound of his exertion echoing inside his helm.  The sweat of his brow stung his eyes shut, and the heat was making him feel faint. It was then he realized her game.  She was attempting to tire him, to allow him to expel his energies.

_She is not as stupid as she looks._

Jaime adjusted his own game to match hers.  Exhausted and infuriated with the situation in which he found himself, he ripped his helm away, desperate for air. There was a marginal relief as the still hot air met his exposed skin. The wench did not remove her helm - the one he had so glibly commanded her to keep on her head, for which he was thankful. The embarrassment of having anyone witness his struggle against this woman would be most undesirable.

The wench’s hulking form was sturdy; her breath not as laboured as his own. She was good.  Better than good, but she relied on her strength and stamina.  She lacked grace, and he was willing to bet could be toppled if forced to move her feet.  

_Time to change the game…_

He did not attack her with as much ferocity, and opened himself up to more attacks, openings she couldn't resist. Jaime defended as much as she, and soon they were standing in place struggling for breath.   He knew he had to finish her.  He was uncertain how much longer he could keep on his feet.  Jaime flew at the wench with a flurry of strikes aimed high, low, high, low. Manoeuvres that forced her to move her feet, forcing her to dance back.

Finally a moment of opportunity came when the wench buckled slightly, her foot twisted, and her balance faltered. Jaime roared as he put his whole weight into the wench. He crashed into her, pressing his exhausted body into hers, grabbing at her wrist, holding her sword at bay, while she held his.

He couldn't help but smile in amusement at the sight they must have made.  If not for their blades, they would almost look like two knights dancing on a knoll.  Jaime kicked the back of her left leg out from under her with his right.  A hearty grunt flying from her lips as her back smashed against the ground.  He lay on top of her, one hand clamped upon her wrist; his other hand held his blade hovering over her glistening neck.  She smelled of sweat, and her tunic was soaked through. Her helm had fallen away; her eyes were shut tight; and hollow gasping noises racked her as she tried to recover her breath. Sweat dripped down his face, landing upon one of her meager tits. The sight of it sobered him, wiping his victorious grin from his lips.  The exaltation of his win dissolved away into the briefest edge of concern for the wench suffocating beneath him.

Jaime scrambled off of her, allowing her to roll to the side until she could recover her breathing The grinning fool shoved a skin of water into his face.  He had completely forgotten about the boy. Jaime hurriedly looked around to make sure no one else had stumbled across their duel. Thankfully they seemed to be alone.

 

“Give it to her,” Jaime said hoarsely.  His throat constricted; he wanted the water badly. He actually felt like he might throw up.

The wench drank deeply. When she had her fill she offered the skin to Jaime.

He took it gratefully. It was warm, but the relief was sweet. He finished what remained and wiped his lips.

The wench looked away from him as he moved his eyes to hers.  Her dull locks and clothing were sweat drenched and plastered to her skin.  He supposed he looked much the same.  He would need to bathe before returning to Cersei. She would be appalled by his current state.

“More water.” Jaime threw the skin to the boy standing over them.  He failed to catch the toss, but happily retrieved the canteen from where it had fallen.  He left them alone to fetch the water.

He could have left and found his own cool drink. The thought of the ale tents suddenly becoming very enticing. Yet he sat in the rough grass, sweaty and exhausted next to this mute woman.

“I should go," the wench said suddenly.

“Wait,” Jaime found himself saying, a command that flew from his lips before realizing it.

“I’ve lost.  We had an agreement.  I will be finding my way home now.”  

She began to lift herself from the ground.

“I said wait,” Jaime growled.  The wench squinted at him suspiciously, but remained seated. He may have been victorious, but it was no easy win, not that he would ever tell her so.

“Where is home?” For whatever reason, he was curious.

“What does it matter?” the wench snapped back.

“By the Gods, you are a sour-tempered mule. Tell me your name and where you are from.  Do not worry. I’ve no intention of asking your father for your hand.”

“You are a member of the Kingsguard. You cannot marry.”

Jaime found himself laughing, amused that she would brush over the absurdity of a betrothal between them by focusing on the customs of the Kingsguard.

Amazingly, the redness of her face deepened as she realized what she had said.

“Tell me your name, and I may reconsider you entering the tourney tomorrow,” he said. She looked to him, searching his eyes for sincerity. “I’ll even arrange for you to fight a suitable opponent.”

“I do not ask any favours of you.”

“Ah, but you do.  You ask for my silence. Your name?”

“Brienne. Brienne of Tarth.”

“Brienne of Tarth…” It took him a moment to place her, but this had to be the daughter of Lord Selwyn.  A minor house, one of little importance and power, but the girl was highborn. Jaime’s grin widened in amusement. “You’re a long way from home, Brienne of Tarth. Now tell me.  Why are you entering this tournament?”

His breath caught mid-inhalation as her eyes fell upon him once more. They flashed the most astonishing shades of blue.

“I made a promise to an old man.  To help his family.  They need the winnings to save their farm. The prize will also afford opportunity to his granddaughter.”

It was not an answer he was expecting. “What could you possibly owe this man?”

“He was kind to me.” She looked down at her dirty calloused hands, fidgeting nervously with her thumbs.  She stopped herself, and sat up straighter almost as if a septa had come along and commanded her to do so. “I plan on putting the old knight's grandson’s name forward.  I will fight in his place.”

She was such an odd, most pitiable creature. .  He had no reason to keep her secret, no desire to keep it either if truth be told, yet he found himself saying, “Do not worry, wench, I will not give away your ruse.” Jaime lifted himself up from the ground.  “Best find your boy.  I think he’s lost.  I’m off to procure a real drink.  Good day.”

“I have your word?” she called after him. “You will not tell?”

“What good is the word of a Kingslayer?” he spat back, walking away from her.  He had decided not to share the wench's secret.  If some knight sliced her open on the fields tomorrow, so be it. He had spent enough time conversing with her; he needed a bath before returning to sup with Cersei.

He managed a few more paces before turning back to spy the wench once more.  She was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank-you to my TWO lovely beta readers Commasplice and Yellowdelaney!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime reveals Brienne's secret and a little back story as to how Brienne came to be with the old knights family.

“You seem distracted.” Cersei pulled him from his thoughts.

Jaime put his fork down, and smiled politely at his sister.  She was resplendent, even in the confines of a canvas tent.

“Where is Robert?” he asked.

“Is that not your concern?” She frowned.

“I’m off duty.” He grinned, arching his eyebrow suggestively.

“Not tonight Jaime,” Cersei sighed. “It's far too hot.” She bundled up her thick braid, holding it on top of her head as she fanned at her neck--a long elegant neck he longed to feast at.

Jaime moved to stand behind her, his right hand falling into the soft crevice where her neck and shoulder met.  He gave a brief gentle press of his thumb before he leaned in to land a kiss at the back of her ear.

“Perhaps you should go,” Cersei said as she pulled away. “I told you it's too bloody hot.”

“Your mood is sour,” Jaime sighed as he pulled away from her.

“Robert and I argued.  He wanted Joffrey to compete, said it would be good for him. When I refused, he said that I baby him.”

 _You do_ , Jaime thought, but bit his lip, knowing that agreeing with the king would only enrage her further. Instead he leaned over her, smelling her hair briefly before lifting her cup from the table.

“I sent Joff back to King's Landing. Robert was... displeased.” Cersei smirked.  She enjoyed provoking Robert, in whatever small ways she could. “He won’t be back this evening.” Her smile faltered somewhat before her green eyes flashed to his warningly. "But keep off me.  I told you it is too hot.”

Jaime finished the contents of the sweet arbour gold in his hand.  If he could improve her mood, he knew he could change her mind. “I have something interesting to share with you.”

She took her cup back from him, and poured herself another. “What?”

“There is a secret competitor entering the tournament tomorrow.”

“Why would you think I should ever care about that?” Cersei asked,  her tone dripped with boredom.

“It's a woman.” Jaime was pleased to see a flicker of intrigue flit across his sister's face, yet his stomach broiled with a stab of guilt knowing he had given away the wench's secret.

“A woman? How ridiculous.  She’ll be killed.”

“I think not.  She’s quite good.” Jaime defended Brienne.

Cersei looked at him with a puzzled expression. “And how would you know this?”

“I fought her.”

Cersei laughed, “You dueled a woman? What madness possessed you?”

Jaime shifted uncomfortably, sincerely wishing he had not mentioned the wench to his sister.  “She needed to be taught a lesson.”

Cersei nodded, seeming to like his answer. “And did you? Teach this girl a lesson?”

“Of course,” Jaime answered back.  Cersei need not know he had almost collapsed in the process.

Cersei shrugged,  her interest in his story waning.

“She plans to disguise herself as this large simpleton boy.  Entering his name as a competitor. She will fight in his place.”

“Whatever for?”

Jaime felt a rippling of guilt wash over him again. “Who knows?” he answered quietly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Brienne hissed in pain, her arms tender from her duel with the Kingslayer. She had been trying to conserve her strength for the competition, only exercising her muscles to keep them limber, as Ser Godwyn had taught her.

 

The Kingslayer had destroyed that tactic. She did not trust the man.  His lack of honour was infamous throughout the seven kingdoms and beyond.  She wanted nothing more than to pack up their provisions; return Peter and Jilly to their grandfather; and sail home. She knew she had to try.  She had made a promise.

 

Brienne said goodnight to the two children.  Soon she could hear Peter snoring loudly from his tent. Brienne lay on her back and wondered if Septa Roelle had returned to Tarth by now. Surely her father would have learned of her disappearance.  She had been kept awake nights thinking about his fury.

 

Lord Selwyn had trusted her to be a dutiful daughter, and she had failed him. Again.  Not only had she failed to impress her would-be-suitor, she had run away from the humiliation of the rejection.  An orchestrated humiliation and now obvious attempt for her to meet Ser Justin Massey. She had thought she was visiting on behalf of her father, to represent Evenfall Hall and discuss trade between Tarth and Stonedance.

 

 When Lord Selwyn come to  her quarters, where she was reading by the window, she had put her book down, eager to have a moment of his time. He was a solitary man, who kept to the affairs of their house. In truth he had never paid her much mind as a child. Every embrace and pat on the head she received from her father as a child she cherished. These were gestures that had lessened with each passing name day and with each inch she grew. When her father had requested she sail to the mainland to deal with the matter of trading with some of the other Storm Land houses, she had taken the attention and request of her father quite seriously. She was eager to please him and to prove she could be trusted with such a matter.  She had learned the names of all the fish they pulled from their shores and the numbers Stone Dance could be promised in exchange for timber.

 

She, Septa Rolle, and a few of her father's men were greeted at the gate by Ser Justin Massey. Ser Justin was handsome, tall, and had a flashing smile, one that disappeared as soon as his blue eyes settled upon her. To his credit he quickly recovered his pleasant expression and welcomed them warmly.

 

That night over a dinner of pheasant, pearl onions and apples, she had proudly rattled off the various sea bass, trout, and fine perch they pulled from the waters of Tarth. Brienne cut her list short upon realizing Ser Justin was barely paying attention to her.  His half-drooped eyes kept drifting over to the young serving maid who was replenishing their cups.

 

Brienne cleared her throat and attempted to let them know of the quantity of swordfish they pulled from their nets just over the past month when he cut her off abruptly.

 

"Look, my lady, tell your father I am not interested in his fish, or his daughter. If you'll excuse me, I feel the need for a private moment."

 

Brienne sat with her mouth open, finally understanding the situation her father had put her in. "This was an attempt to betroth me?" she said stupidly under her breath.

 

In crisp clipped tones, Septa Roelle answered, "I told your father this would be a waste of our time." Her septa wiped the gravy from the corner of her frown put her napkin upon her plate, and rose from the table, "I'm retiring for the evening.  No sense staying here longer than need be.  We'll leave early on the morrow."

 

Alone at the table Brienne sat too infuriated to dare move.  It wasn't until a servant asked if she wished for the pudding that she was able to choke out a no.

 

She was incensed at the scenario her father had placed her in.  It was one thing to know you were the item to be traded, for lands, alliances, or goods, but to come under such pretenses unknowingly...  Brienne wiped an angry tear away with her palm.  She could not return to face her father.  She needed time.

 

That night she stepped out of her dress, one that Septa Roelle had insisted she wear. Brienne tossed the dress over the bed, cursing herself for not understanding the reasons for her coming to Stonedance.  She hurriedly changed into a tunic, coat, and breeches.  Grabbing her cloak, and a bundle of supplies she strode out into the dark halls.  She did not allow herself to think of what she was doing.  She knew if she did, she would lose her nerve. She found her horse, and waited until the gates were quiet, leaving Stonedance behind her.

She rode without incident for half the night, watching the moon rise and begin to fall.  Hours of blissful freedom that eventually turned into anxious worry. She had acted rashly.  She needed to turn back.  If she hurried she might make it back to Stonedance before the day break. She clicked her tongue and turned her horse when she heard a frightened call echoing out in the dark. Without a thought of hesitation Brienne kicked her horse and rode towards the terrified cries.

 

She came upon the small farm house of the old man--the place under threat of torches and blades.  He stood in his night shirt, knobbed knees exposed and shaking in the night air. A large young man stood within the doorway yelling, his eyes wide with fright. Three men laughed as the old man swung his long sword cursing them off. He looked as though he could barely lift the weapon, let alone swing and successfully strike any of the men with it.  Brienne had no weapon with her.  Her mace hung in the armoury at Tarth. She jumped from her mount and searched the ground.  Finding a sturdy oak limb she grasped it and yelled out to the bandits.

 

Predictably the men laughed. Brienne steadied herself as the first bandit came at her brandishing his short sword, a gleam of threatening silvery reflected light danced towards her. The branch she gripped was dense and heavy; it did not split as it smashed against his jaw, sending his teeth flying. He collapsed to the ground and screamed in pain.  Brienne turned her attention to the second man as he came at her from her left.

“You ugly bitch!” he snarled as he shoved his knife at her.  Brienne stepped quickly to the side, allowing the man’s stab to move past her;  she then turned and used the branch to swing at his arms.  A crack rang out into the night air.  Brienne was concerned she had destroyed her crude weapon, but as the man screamed in pain she realized she had broken one of his arms with the branch. The two men rendered immobile, she turned her attention back to the old man.  He was on the ground clutching his head, blood running down his neck, it soaked his nightshirt. She would not make it to him in time, so instead she whipped the branch behind her and then flung it forward.  The branch flew through the air, twirling towards her target, and she smiled at the crack of its impact against the man's skull. The third bandit dropped his weapon and torch as he tumbled forward.

 

Brienne ran to where the fallen man lay. The old man stared at her, his eyes wide and bright with shock. He opened his mouth, fumbling to find words finally managing to yell, “Peter!”

The large boy in the door moaned.  He looked terrified and distraught.  

 _He’s simple…_ Brienne realized.

 

“Check on your sister, Peter,” the old man commanded with a gentle but worried voice.

The old man grasped the short sword dropped by the bandit. “This one is still alive, best finish him.” Without hesitation he ran the blade across he unconscious man’s throat.  Brienne gasped in shock.  She had never seen a man killed.  She closed her mouth reminding herself he deserved it. They were attacking this family attempting to harm them.  It was this man's right to take their lives if he wished it.

 

“Pity the other two got away,” the old man said as he looked beyond her.

Brienne turned to where she had felled the other bandits.  They had gone.

“Come inside, I’ll have my Jilly make us a nibble to eat.”

Brienne hesitated, thinking of Stonedance, an irritated Septa Roelle, and a disappointed Selwyn Tarth.

"Please," the elderly man persisted.  "They could return."

 _They could..._ Brienne thought. She nodded and went inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I must thank my two betas. Commasplice and Yellow Delaney :)
> 
> Have I mentioned I love this fandom?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne puts on her helm, and enters the tournament.

Brienne had stayed with the old knight and his family far too long.  They had been enjoyable days and evenings, filled with helping them with chores, listening to the old man's battle tales.  She told herself that it was to ensure the bandits did not return, but with each passing day the pull to stay was greater than her desire to leave.  She knew she was not prepared to meet her father after such a long absence. His anger she could bear, it was his disappointment she feared.  Once this deed was complete, and her winnings were in the hands of the old knight, she would go home. She has been craven long enough. She would return to Tarth and face the wrath of Lord Selwyn.

“Jilly, stay here with your brother.  Do not leave this tent until I come for you.” Brienne held the girl’s gaze, and she nodded obediently. “If I do not return by the sunset, go home to your grandfather. Do you remember the way?”

The girl nodded again.

With the feeling of her guts in her throat, Brienne placed her helm upon her head and dropped the visor. She left the two children, hoping she could fulfill the promises she had made.

She arrived at the stands to find a score of men gathered, waiting for their names to be called for duels. Some joked. Others boasted. Most darted dark looks about them, sizing up the competition. Brienne hid behind her helm and hoped none tried to speak to her. Dull tourney swords were passed around, Brienne longed for her mace back home at Tarth.  The weapon had always served her well.

 _I must not cry out,_ Brienne reminded herself as she waited for Peter’s name to be called.  Her aim was to duel, beat her opponent, and take her winnings before anyone could suspect her.  Shouting out with a womanly cry would certainly give away the game.

The stands were packed with spectators clad in vibrant pops of colour from all the high lords and ladies that had come to celebrate Jon Arryn’s name day.  Brienne looked for green; she hoped to spy Renly sitting amongst them. Not able to find his handsome face, she looked to where the king and his queen sat. The king was guzzling from a large golden cup, and the queen had a pinched look on her beautiful face. Suddenly the queen’s face turned towards her, a face that was blessed with all the feminine allure Brienne knew she sorely lacked. Brienne looked away, just as the Kingslayer came up beside her.

“I took you for craven. Did you sleep in?” he whispered at her side. Not waiting for a reply he strode past her to find a suitable place to watch the upcoming matches.

Brienne bit her tongue, hopeful that he had kept his word.

Horns sounded, followed by a booming voice announced the first pull.

“Peter of Wendwater Creek.”

 _I’m first?_ Brienne’s heart raced beneath her plate.  

The air had cooled some, and a wind was blowing across the fields. A storm was stirring up in the distance. Her skin prickled and her stomach broiled anxiously. The man announced her opponent. “... will be fighting Ser Gregor Clegane.”

There was a foreboding silence for a moment, followed by a murmur of excited chatter coming from the stands.

Brienne turned to face the field. Stomping onto the grounds was the largest man she had ever seen.  His armour was black, dulled and dented from use.  This beast was no fancy polished knight.   _This man is death_.

“Peter from Wendwater Creek!"

“He’s probably halfway to Bravos by now!” came a hearty call, followed by an echo of laughter.

Recovering her senses, Brienne stepped forward and raised her arm.

“Can’t blame you for losing your stones, lad. Here’s your weapon, "someone said as they shoved the blunted sword into her right hand. “The Mountain was a last minute entry, bad luck to have him drawn against you. My advice, fall down and feign injury. Early.”

 _I will not_ , Brienne thought disgusted by the suggestion. Instead she nodded her head, turned and walked with trepidation towards her opponent. Ser Goodwin's voice came to her: _he will want to end you quickly, tire him out, let them expel their energies while you preserve your own._

 

As Brienne stepped onto the field, a crack of lightning flashed on the horizon.  The storm was far away, but the smell of the distant rain breezed sweetly over her.  It was a brief respite from the smell of sweat and fear that lingered in her helm.

The Mountain came at her with a roar.  He was quick for a man of his size. Brienne stepped left to avoid his first strike. He swung at her again. She bent low allowing the sword to fly over her—a  risky maneuver, but one that worked. As the Mountain twisted, Brienne delivered a walloping blow to his torso.  A ring of steel echoed out. The crowd cheered. Brienne had a fleeting moment to appreciate they were cheering for her before having to dodge yet another mighty strike.  This time he managed to nick her, a short screech of metal as his blade grazed her arm.

Brienne continued to dodge his attacks. The gasps and cheers of the crowds were so loud only the approaching thunder drowned them out.  Brienne had managed to land a few blows of her own upon the Mountain, but with little result.  Worse was he showed no signs of tiring. He swung down hard at her, overextending himself; Brienne seized the opportunity and knocked the helm from his head, following up her attack with a kick to his backside, hoping to topple him forward.  The crowd cheered and laughed as her foot met his rear. The man recovered quickly taking a few hurried paces forward before recovering his balance.  He turned to slice at her again, Brienne managed to dodge his swing once more.

“Hold still!” The Mountain gave a low growl his huffing voice only beginning to hint at his exertion and frustration. She stepped back, putting more distance between them, taking the opportunity to recover her own breath.

 

A few drops of rain began to fall, dark spots sprinkling upon the dried dust below them.   

He came at her quickly again; Brienne slid to her right, parrying his attack. The brunt of the blow landed upon her sword sending a vibrating pain that ran up her arm and settled in her shoulders. It was all she could do to keep her grip and not cry out.  She could taste the blood in her mouth from where she had bit down on her lip.

A crack of lightning sounded out over the field, followed by a downpour of rain. The horns blew to end the battle.  Brienne turned; most of the crowd had run to seek shelter from the storm. At the edge of the field she could see the white cloak of the Kingslayer through the sheets of rain.

_He did this._

Brienne closed her eyes and exhaled, dropping her sword to her side. She was spent, and the thought of continuing this duel on morrow was an exhausting one.  She held out her hand to shake her opponent’s, a respectful end to a well-fought match.

“You cunt,” came his reply.

 

Brienne did not see the swing of his blade until it was far too late. She screamed as her severed hand hit the mud.  The world spun as she fell to the earth.  The Mountain loomed above her. His wet black hair clung to his skin like small snakes, his eyes cold, and his smile cruel. Brienne clutched her severed limb to her chest, the blood warm against her neck.  He raised his sword to finish her.  She closed her eyes and wished he would, even as her body rolled away to avoid his attack. She opened her eyes again briefly, a blur of white and gold flashed before her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry!
> 
> Thanks to Commasplice & Yellow Delaney for beta reading and convincing me to post.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is injured and Jaime is left reeling.

Jaime gasped for air, not realizing he had been holding his breath.  The wench had managed to parry another of the Mountain’s attacks.  He had thought she was good before when they had dueled beneath the trees, but to be able to stand her ground against the Mountain… ‘Good’ was woefully lacking.

The storm thundered in the distance. Jaime found himself wishing the winds would pick up and sweep the rains in upon them.  The tournament would be forced to delay. She was an ugly and surly creature, but she did not deserve to be humiliated by the Mountain. Jaime stood watching their blades cross again and again. From his vantage, the wench looked the part of a knight, albeit one in sorry looking armour. There was no telling that the tall and bulky form was that of a woman.  He found himself cheering along with the others as the wench knocked the Mountain’s helmet loose; the idiot had overextended his swing, she swiftly used his misstep to her advantage,  kicking Ser Gregor's  backside, almost sending him sprawling into the dirt.

A cool drop of rain hit his cheek, quickly followed by another.  Jaime ignored the sounds of the other spectators behind him scrambling to find their cover.  He was too engrossed in the battle of the Mountain and the strange woman who nearly bested him the day before.

A mighty crack of lightning followed by booming thunder erupted above, the rains fell, and drenched the fields. The horns blew to signal the end of the battle. Jaime exhaled, relieved.  The two fighters stopped as the second horn blew.  The wench crossed the field and extended her hand, Jaime squinted through the sheets of rain, barely making out the blade of the Mountain’s dagger as he swiped through the air, severing the woman's hand.  Her screams were terrible.  Jaime rushed onto the field, arriving in time to block the downward swing of the Mountain’s dulled long sword. A flare of sharp pain ran up his arms as he kept the swing at bay.

“What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?” Jaime cursed at the him.

The Mountain’s snarl of hatred ebbed as he realized who was reprimanding him. Ser Gregor pulled his blade away and stepped back, his gaze looking beyond Jaime to the stands.  Jaime spun to see who the Mountain was looking at, a shock of scarlet skirts caught his eye.   _Cersei?_ She was one of the few people who had not sought shelter. She had never been interested in tournaments, let alone enough to allow her silks to be drenched in rain. Disgust and understanding washed over him as she saw her give the briefest of nods to the Mountain.  The gigantic man marched past Jaime and off the field.

 

Jaime stood in the muck, the gravely injured swordswoman laying at his feet, she clung to her bloodied limb.  Red mingled in the muddy puddles all around her, beside her lay her lost hand.  Her eyes were dulled, staring blankly and unfocused, it was like she could not see him at all.  She no longer screamed, her mouth hung open collecting rain, strange, faint and breathy choking gasps escaped her full lips. Jaime screamed for a maester, his voice ripping at his throat until he was sure he was heard. He bent down to tend to her. Her face was pale, _far too pale_.

Her eyes drooped, then closed.  Panic thundered inside his chest.  He gathered the fallen woman in his arms.  Her body limp... “You will not die, you will not die,” he could hear himself say as she trudged through the fields towards several men running to meet him.

The wench had been fortunate there had been so many bored maesters present at the tourney.  Jaime stayed with her as they forced milk of the poppy past her lips. He stayed when they cleaned and stitched her wounds. They assured him she would live, if infection did not set in.

Jaime told himself that he had done more than enough to appease his conscience.  It befuddled him as to why he cared.  She was the fool who wanted to play at swords. _He had warned her._

Nevertheless, when he left the maesters’ tent he had found his feet carrying him towards where he had dueled her. The storm had long rolled away, but the ground was a bog; several times his feet were sucked into the wet earth. He trudged on, searching out the large simpleton, the wench had came with. He heard the cries of the boy as the now distant thunder crashed over the horizon. Throwing open the tent, he found the large boy cowering. A small pox-faced girl was doing her best to comfort him.  Jaime gave her a purse of gold and silver. Tenfold what Brienne of Tarth could have won at the tournament.

"Go home. The wench earned that for you." They stared at him wide-eyed and frightened. He did not linger, and trekked back through the muck.

Ser Balon Swann found him, his lantern's light glimmering off the gold of his armour, his white cloak splattered with mud. "Ser Jaime, the Queen beckons you."

"Tell her I'm occupied." The angry words tumbled out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying.  _Cersei._ He could not bring himself to think of his sister.  When his thoughts drifted to her, a coldness spread through him.  _The way she had grinned...she had been so pleased..._

Swann nodded grimly and returned towards the royal tents.  Jaime could hear the frivolity of the singers and merrymakers drifting down the hills.

He knew he could not avoid Cersei for long.  His duties would demand that he be in her presence, and soon.  Jaime looked towards the maester's tents, his eyes settling upon the one that contained the injured Brienne of Tarth. 

"Wait!" he halted Swann who was half-way up the hill. "Tell her I will be there, shortly." Swann paused, nodded a reply and continued his walk towards the King's tents.

Jaime followed, foreboding blooming with every step.

 

He could hear the sounds of Cersei's humming before he entered her tent. Her joviality left him feeling unsettled and racked his nerves. She sat with her back to him, her hair gathered and swept over her bare shoulder as she brushed it. Her gaze never leaving the looking glass. "Where have you been? Ser Balon was sent to find you hours ago."

He did not answer.

She spun around, her face glowing in the shifting flicker of candlelight. Her green eyes appraised him, "Gods, you're a mess."

He had forgotten how soiled he was in the wench's blood.  His neck was sticky with it. He ignored her and asked, "Did you do it?"

"Do what?" she smiled sweetly. _She knew..._

He kept his voice as level as he could as he asked, "Did you command Gregor Clegane to fight that woman?"  

Her smile disappeared as she realized the weight of his anger. She shrugged and looked at him curiously. "What does it matter? You said you wanted to teach her a lesson."

"He took her hand Cersei!" Jaime spit out enraged. 

"I did not order that!" she hissed back. "Keep your voice down. What do you even care?" She shook her head puzzled, by his temper.

Jaime stood before her, mouth open.  He struggled to find words of retort.

"You don't look well, brother.  Perhaps you should return to King's Landing. Get yourself cleaned up, we'll discuss this later." 

 

Jaime left Cersei's tent in bewilderment.  He did as she asked.  Removing himself from his Kingsguard uniform, and dressing in clean clothing before taking a lantern to traverse the camp towards the tent where the injured Brienne of Tarth lay.

 

A young maester was changing her bandages, small silk strips, soaked through with dark blood. 

"She's doing well, Ser." The maester smiled at him.

Jaime felt the tightness in his gut loosen somewhat.

"I can have someone send for you... if there is a change."

"No. I'll stay here," Jaime said as he sat.

The maester nodded, and went about his work.

Jaime found fitful sleep, no easy rest could be had.  Every groan or staggered breath from the wench pulled him from slumber.

 

At daybreak her blue eyes opened, and settled upon him.   

"I'm not dead." She rasped.

"No."

Her eyes drifted down to her wrapped appendage; the linen strips were clean, her bleeding had stopped. "Why?" Her eyes flashed up to his, brimming with tears. "Why not just end me? Did you wish to have me look upon my maiming before killing me?"

"What are you ranting on about?" Jaime's shock gave way to anger with each of the accusations.  "If it wasn't for me, I'd be writing your father a letter announcing your death."

"My father?" Tears fell, long tendrils that curved over her pale freckled cheeks. She shut her eyes tightly and when she opened them again her words startled him. "Just finish it. Your 'suitable opponent' failed in his duties, Kingslayer. Have mercy and just end it." When she looked to him, there was fury and fire in her eyes.  She was not begging.

"Stop your sulking. It does not become you.  I did not pit the Mountain against you, and I certainly did not order him to take your hand." His anger grew at having to defend himself, and knowing who had orchestrated it... "You will not be killed here, not by my blade."

"No not by yours." Brienne turned her head away from him. "Leave me."

Jaime rose to do as she asked.  He was quite done with this pitiable and ungrateful creature. He should have left her to bleed out on that field.

He grabbed the flap of the tent to exit. Pausing for a moment, he wondered if he should leave her a blade. It would be a mercy. Instead he let go of the rough canvas, and strode back to face her.

"You will be as good again as you ever were Brienne of Tarth. Men have been known to lose a hand, and fight again with their off."

She did not respond.

Jaime moved to her bed, grabbed her by the chin, forcing her eyes to his.

"You will be a better swordswoman with your left than you ever were with your right, Brienne of Tarth.  I vow it."

Her eyes were still dull from the milk of the poppy, she seemed confused, and then her fat cracked lips opened. "Your honour is lacking.  Your vows mean nothing."

He glared at her, "Go on, hurl your insults. I stand by my words. _I_ will see to it."

She blessedly kept her mouth shut.  He let go of her face, and said, "I will write your father again, letting him know you will be coming with me to King’s Landing. We will begin training when we return, provided you've healed enough."

"Why? Why are you doing this?" She asked weakly.

_Because you had me on that knoll.  Because I believe you could have beat Clegane. Because you intrigue me. Because..._

"Because I did not strain my back carrying your great lumbering form only to have you end your life in this tent. Now stop your sniveling.  We leave in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for leading you all on for the first three chapters, but I must say chapter four comments were hands down the best things I've ever received in my in-box. I felt like an evil little gremlin giggling at all the outraged and shocked responses.
> 
> This is an ending of sorts. Its where the story will have to rest for now. 
> 
> A gigantic thank-you to Yellow Delaney and Commasplice. Double-whammy awesome beta readers! Hugs!


End file.
